


Of touch and time

by CyanideCherub



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, GN Reader, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, References to Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008), Slow Burn, clone desecendant, is likely to change though., mando x reader, touched starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:01:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyanideCherub/pseuds/CyanideCherub
Summary: It's been three weeks since Mando picked you up from your home world, scared and alone. How will things change going forward and just what is he doing with this small alien child?
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Kudos: 14





	Of touch and time

The thrum of the engine had become a comfort, one of few in the weeks you'd spent aboard the Razor Crest. The other was the delightful sounds of the little green companion who'd found itself becoming your comfort and outlet as you dealt with the blows of grief from losing the last of your family. His, at least you thought it was a he, smiles and gurgles of joy as he ambled around the deck after you and his adoptive father gave you a small glimmer of hope in a very uncertain time.

You had nothing to your name, bar the clothes on your back and the pulse rifle currently stored in the Mandalorian's personal armoury. Speaking of, he had been very – quiet. Not that he hadn't been before, but since rescuing you on Arbor there was an air of tension between you both, as though he couldn't quite decide what to do with you, and as such just left you to wander aimless and listless about the small, confines of his ship.

For three weeks you dragged your sorry self through the grief, incapable of making a decision for yourself. Left wondering which pitiful rock the Tin Man would leave you on. He never did, he simply parked the ship on an outer reach, left the child tucked away in the cubby and lingered on you with as though trying to say _something_ , before leaving with a turn of his cloak and disappearing into the terrain. You mostly sat in the same spot, drowning in sallow thoughts and reliving those last moments, picking at your fingers, your borrowed tunic, anything to try and drag you away from that pained look on your Father's face as the Mandalorian coddled you onto his ship. Somewhere in the silence, the sound of a pressurised door would open, a guff of exertion and a small beige bundle would be at your feet, arms outstretched, begging to be picked up.

“C'mon then, little one. Let's see what we have let for you.”

You open the rations cooler, pulling out sticks of jerky for the little green alien to chew on enthusiastically as you rocked him against your hip. A little burp would indicate his fill and he would bury into your chest, snuggling into the smell of his dad's spare tunic. Soon, he would sleep, elongated ears twitching as he slept soundly and you would find a wall or a crate and lethargy would take over your body and you would sleep with the child bundled against you like he was the only thing keep you sane.

Boots clanking against the grate woke you. A rustle of metal and fabric. A tinny huff and the sight of Beskar roused you from your nap, the little one grumbled, pulled from his sleep against your breast.

“Welcome back.” You looked at him as you rose to your feet, shushing the child as the disturbance made him a little cranky. Something about the Mandalorian unnerved but also comforted you, you couldn't place it. There was an atmosphere, ironically. He a man of few and concise words; he seemed to have a lot to say, yet left them unsaid. Starting conversations with agitated huffs, heavy silence and direct instructions. And you, with one companion incapable of speaking common and the other unwilling, you lost the will to speak at all.

Mando nodded as he placed his rifle back in the armoury, and slung the pack from his back onto the nearest crate. The child was awake completely now, chatting to his Dad from your arms as though the Mandalorian knew exactly what he was talking about.

“How has he been?” He asked, voice soft and laced with static through the vocoder. He reached for the little green alien, and took him from your arms, bundling him up against his own chest and giving him the once over as his bundle patted at the cool metal with animated hands.

You missed the warmth instantly. “Fine, he escaped within the first hour of your leave. He's eaten, I changed him and we've slept the rest of the time.”

A grunt of acknowledgement came from him as the visor tilted towards the pair of big watery eyes that demanded his attention. “And you?” He was looking at you now, you think, it was hard to tell but you had a sense of eyes on you. The tilt of the visor led you to believe he was concerned, as you attempted to decipher the armour clad man.

You grumbled to yourself, eyes hitting the deck. You weren't hungry, you never were anymore. “I'm fine.”

Mando moved the child onto one hip and reached into the rucksack; he pulled out a small box and handed it to you. “There was a Naboo baker in the bazaar.” As if that had explained everything. He waited for you to open the box, finding a bundle of bean buns, still warm to the touch. “You're not used to the rations, but you should eat something.”

The small action had shook you, here you were thinking the man was ready to jettison you out into the cold void of space and he'd thought of your grief enough to buy you a treat. You looked at box, decorated in blues and ribbons, and tried not to cry, an overwhelming sense of guilt and selfishness overcame you. The Mandalorian sidestepped you, ignoring the child's grabbing hands towards the baked goods. He made his way towards the cockpit, not caring about platitudes when he felt a tug on his cloak. He turned his helm to see you, hand balled tight into the coarse material, lips thinned and eyes cinched to keep the tears from betraying you. Your hand trembled, vying you to grab onto to some part of him, something that was human, calling out for some familiarity, and warmth.

“Thank you,” you managed, lip wobbling, knuckles white.

He waited, until you calmed, until you'd processed enough to let go of his cloak. “Eat,” he repeated with a soft rumble he saved for the child. “We set off into hyper-space in twenty. You'll need to be in your seat in fifteen.”

He disappeared up the rungs of the ladder, leaving you to your privacy and you ate all but two of the buns. Leaving one for the child, and one for him. A warm feeling flushed across your skin, not just from the tears but from this one small act of kindness and the hope it gave you.

* * *

Two days later found you on a small planet a few hundred thousand miles away from Tattoine. Full of moisture farmers, scrap sellers, and the occasional Jawa scampering about the underbelly of the bazaar. The Mandalorian had dragged you out of the ship; well, he'd told you they were going out, threw a poncho in your direction and put the baby in a bandoleer hidden by his cloak.

“Stay close,” he warned. There were no imps here, but a good variety of vagabonds, opportunists and slavers who would take one look at you and decide you were worth the credits to some warlord or senator. Both of which would use you for unspeakable purposes and the bounty hunter would much rather avoid that.

A man named Greef had sent him a tip about a scrap seller who'd come across some interesting pieces, swore they were Jedi, from Coruscant. But it was all strictly hush hush. The imps were fractured, but still strong, their ears and eyes still reached certain parts of the Galaxy beyond the reach of the New Republic. With one hand on his blaster and the other on the bandolier to keep the child quiet, Mando guided you through a back alley of sandstone buildings laced in scrap metal, tubes, rubber piping and electrical cabling from an era just settling into the dust. You were dubious to say the least, being the grandchild of a defected clone just about anything to do with the Jedi and the old Republic made your skin crawl. Your grandfather had shown you the faded scar at the base of his neck where the Jedi whom he'd served used the force to tear the chip from his skull. Saving both their lives long enough to escape Coruscant to go into hiding. Your grandmother would smack him across the back of the head playfully.

“You always embellish the story, my love. Don't be so dramatic. You make it sound like I was some naïve youngling bouldering through with force in tow. Ignore your grandfather, little one. The story changes every time he tells it.”

She would tease your cheeks, and potter off, watering her plants and reading her books, casting a loving look at the back of your grandfathers head each time she passed. He always looked so much older than her, despite the fact she was twice his age, their dynamic had always thrilled you.

“I don't like this,” you muttered pawing away at the happier time.

Mando agreed. “That's why I brought you. I need you to tell me if the artefacts are fakes.”

You both stood at heavy set door, settled in the shade as though the sun had forgotten it's existence. The child wriggled in his perch, something agitated him. Mando spoke in Mando'a, the words calmed you all, though he aimed it at the child. Once the little one was settled he rattled his fist against the door four times in bouts of two. A hollowing minute went by before the door peeked open. A beady eye looked at your party before opening up a few inches more, encouraging you over the threshold. A grizzled Toydarian greeted you, moss green and with fractured wings – it hobbled down a corridor leading you both with distaste.

The alien snorted, “This way, quickly.” They hurried on their short, stubby legs, leading you and the Mandalorian past a slew of doors, with maker-knows-what behind them. The sounds were overwhelming; a barrage of shouts in a myriad of tongues, bangs, sounds of blasters and screams seeped from under the gaps in the doors. You held your rifle in your hands, it would be useless, of course in such close contact, but it gave you a comfort and a blip of confidence.

You were led into a dome shaped room, a fire pit in the centre and pews decorated in plush linens and expensive hanging lights. Heavy plumes of incense hung thick in the air, designed to relax but it only served to set your nerves alight. In the centre sat another Toydarian, with a knowing smirk and swathed in jewels. They were no mere scrap merchants, of that you were certain.

“Mando,” you hissed, heart palpitating. Your hand tapped the back of his wrist, feeling a blossom of warmth through the back of his glove. For a moment you thought he would reciprocate, giving you the reassurance you so desperately needed, yet he stood fast. Helmet directed at their contact.

“Ah, Mandalorian. Good to see you, my friend. Please, come and take a seat.” The Toydarian leant back against the head of the pew, rings clinking against their spindly fingers, eyes watching from it's tilted head for your reaction.

Mando nodded, but made no movement forward. “Setu, it's been a long time.”

From your position behind your Tin Man you felt him relax at your touch, releasing some of the tension you both held. The situation was sketchy at best, but it wasn't the first nor last situation Mando would find himself in where danger was afoot.

The alien let out a croaked laugh and burst into a strained wet, cough. “Still don't trust me, eh, Mando? A man could be insulted.”

Mando let out a contemptuous sigh, “Good thing you're not a man, Setu.” He folded his arms above the child and eyed the alien down through his helm. “You said you had artefacts – so lets talk.”

* * *

An exchange; a bounty for the Jedi artefacts, which you'd verified. A couple of scrolls and glass cube, a holocron. Your grandmother had one left over from when she abdicated the order. Why your Tin Man needed Jedi relics was beyond you, but it wasn't your place to ask. He led you back to the Razor Crest, handed you the baby and left with one instruction. _Don't leave the ship_. So, for two nights and days on a small planetoid with too many suns, you waited and you watched. One eye firmly on the child who had an unusual knack for disappearing among the crates, nooks and crannies and reappearing when he wanted feeding or comfort. The other on the the hatch, watching the metal creak and groan under the planet's heat, air shimmering as midday sun made temperatures aboard the Razor Crest soared.

On the first night alone with the child you were fearful, the tension palpable. It was the first time you'd been alone in a very long time. The cold night let your imagination run wild. Bounty hunters were waiting in the shadows of the parking deck. Empire elite were stood outside of the Razor Crest, blasters held high with smug grins under fierce helmets. The sounds of hull settling as the desert winds blew tricked your mind into believing salvers were canvassing the ship, looking for entry points. Sleep didn't come easy, but the child seemed undisturbed lulling into an easy slumber as the sun slipped from the sky. He, at least had faith in his Father's success. You watched his strange little face twitch in it's deep sleep, wrinkles moving softly as it's little mouth let out a tiny mewl. His tiny claws coiled around the blanket as he tussled in his dreams, the metal dome from the top of the thruster nestled under his chin.

“At least you're sleeping sound little one. Wonder if your Dad is doing the same.”

The second day was strained, you could hear the bustle of the ship yard. A cornucopia of races and creeds living and working as you stilled in time. You both watched quietly from the window, searching for a friendly familiar face but seeing nothing a but a sea of strangers. Which when you thought about it left a lot of room for irony. The face you were looking for, wasn't even a face at all. You had no idea what manner of man hid behind the Beskar. What his face looked like, or the colour of his skin. Were his eyes warm, or his mouth kind? How would his hair feel, did he have any? You could visualise in your head what you think he could look like, it made you feel safe, warm. One of his tunic's clung to your skin, his scent fading from the threads. You held it tightly against your form, caught in a spiral of want and loneliness. Grief and fear beckoned at your door, it was as dark as the void and thrumming in your veins.

Then light.

Three small, green fingers rested against your forearm, a tiny beacon of warmth and hope. Somehow the child had sensed your disposition. His large, dewy eyes squinted in concentration. A wave feel over you, cocooning you, wrapping you in a field of metaphorical light. Your mood shifted as the child fell to his bottom with a huff of exhaustion. He let out a big yawn, his mouth stretched wide and he looked to you with a sleepy smile, arms grabbing for you.

You took his slight weight in your arms and cradled him, astounded and confused about what you'd felt. His pointed lobes flickered as he breathing slowed and he fell asleep once more. You padded to and fro in the cockpit as your thoughts coalesced. Just what was this kid and why did the Tin Man have to keep hiding him? He had certainly done _something_ to you, what he'd done, you weren't sure. Your mind would drift to the mission, and how a bounty was being collected for old Jedi relics. Surely not? This little thing, a Jedi? You placed him into his cradle, and took a seat opposite watching him sleep. His little chest rise and fell in a soft metronome. The outside world fell apart as you focused surely on the bundle in silver. What power could one so small wield? And to be with a Mandalorian at that? Which was hilarious considering your heritage. A mere three decades ago and you would have killed on another on site, funny how the galaxy changed.

_Blaster fire, a solemn smile and the distinct sound of metal against metal._

You woke up, the pressurised doors opening from the base of the ship catapulting you alert. It was the middle of the night and much cooler, goosebumps graced your bare forearms as the planet's suns had disappeared. In his cradle, the child slept still. Poor little tyke must have been exhausted. You sat, and listened to the sounds in the hull, waiting for something to appear up the ladders. Blaster in hand, pointed at the top rung, you waited. A cold shiver ran down your spine as you shook away at the fatigue that clawed at your mind. You held your breath as a foot hit the bottom rung of the ladder. You pushed yourself back against the Captain's chair as a second clang chased up to the cockpit. You heard a grunt from down below and could have screamed if your voice hadn't failed you.

The child awoke, smiling, waving a tiny hand at you as if waving good morning. He babbled conversationally and you tried to shush him the best you could, but he was already wriggling out of his blankets and making his way to his little feet.

A glimmer of something dark appeared at the top of the ladder. “You know, if I really was a raider, you'd be dead by now.”

The child let out a laugh, and you slumped into the chair, limbs going limp. “Mando...” you breathed a sigh of relief.

His head appeared, and the rest quickly followed. His fingers tapped quickly at the controller on his wrist and the lights of the console gave the Razor Crest enough light so he could see you both. He grunted a greeting and dropped his rifle against the back of one of the co-pilot seats along with the backpack he had hauled over his shoulder. As the strap of the bag wrapped around the back of the chair he winced, a pained hiss mottled by the vocoder.

You were on your feet instantly, inspecting him. Beskar was pocked with blaster burns, gunpowder and caked in blood and mud. “What happened to you?”

“ Mhm, m'fine. Just Setu's bounty.”

Your fingers hovered over the metal of his chest plate, fingers itching to rest themselves against it. “Did you get the bounty?” You asked, voice low, eyes scanning the damage.

A groan of pain crackled through the helmet. “Yeah, he was holed up in some caves outside of the city with a crew. Knew I was coming and put up a fight. It's fine. I have the artefacts.”

It's fine? Fine. No it bloody wasn't. He could have died, and you would have been stranded with a magic kid and no idea on where to go next. He didn't even leave you with comms. You balled up your fingers and they wrung against the armour, a deft cling rang through the cockpit followed by the sounds of your wailing. “It's not fine! I had no idea where you'd gone, or if you were coming back! I kept thinking the Empire or some kriffing raiders would blow a whole in the hull every five minutes. It's not been fine since I was dragged from Arbor! My family is dead, my home is gone and then you left me too!!!”

He ignored the pain as you wailed against his chest, sure he'd been out in the wilds hunting down a rival gang for Setu. Leteron's were scrappy and resourceful little bastards, and with four arms meant they could carry three more blasters than him, but he managed – eventually. Beyond all of that, Din knew what it was like to be torn away from everything you'd ever known and forced to cope with a strange situation. He could understand your plight. So he waited.

You crushed against him, feeling the cold beat of metal against your chest as your wrapped your arms around him. He had some height on you, so your head rested against the top of his shoulder, tears dripping into the thick cotton cloak. The sound of babbling came from your feet and you could feel his tiny fingers against your calf, like he was trying to hug you.

A sigh of frustration came from the Mandalorian, his kid always won in the end. “Fine,” he said looking down through his visor at the small mediator. “But no crying the next time I put you in the fresher.” You heard the small mewl of acknowledgement.

With uncertainty, Din wrapped both of his arms around you. Encasing you into a warmth you settled into your very soul. He was unsure, uncomfortable, but he bared it. He still remembered being carried and held as a boy, soaring into the sky, along with a member of the Death Watch. The warmth and compassion shown by the warriors that saved him, _shaped_ him. He supposed you just needed the same. His thick gloves curled around the opposing shoulder and brought you closer. Sure, he smelt worse than a decomposing Rancor, but you didn't mind. Soon your wails curbed to hiccuped sobs, and trembling, you let go. Knowing that if you didn't soon, Mando might soon keel over. In a moment of uncharacteristic affection he cupped the back of your neck with a gloved hand, running his thumb along your jaw.

“ _Jate, udesla jii,”_ Good, calm now.

Electricity ran through you as he reached over you to pick the child up. You held your cheek where the leather had traced and found yourself clamouring for it all over again.

“Tin man?” He looked at you an nodded, child on his hip as took a seat in the Captain's chair. “Thank you, for rescuing me. I'm sorry I shouted.”

Mando shook his head, as the child patted the Beskar with growing concern. “It's fine. Can you get the bacti spray for me?” He groaned as the child tried splay his little fingers against the metal – what was the kid trying to do? “No,” he directed at the alien. “I'll use the stim, understand, _adiik?”_

You watched as the child sat, dejected on his Father's lap, the metal dome of the thruster tight in his little claws.

“Sure,” you said, looking at the bag containing the artefacts. “And what about the Jedi relics?”

“They're going to help me find his people.” He replied, again, as if his short answers solved anything.

Curiosity took the better of you, so you took a peek. Peeling back the tan lip of the bag, a soft glow filled the contents. You grabbed it with both hands, pulling back the hessian slip that encased it. In the palm of your hand sat the holocron cube, no bigger than the box your bean buns sat it. Except, this was different from a bakery box. Get a true look at it, you noticed it was glass, adorned in intricate gold and it lived. From the inside you could feel a wave, a humming of life and a big change. The box lifted from your hands, a soft blue glow emitting from the glass. You stood back, confused, watching it as it floated across the cockpit and landed into the hands of the child. His shiny dome forgotten about as this new object filled both of his tiny hands. The metal corners shifted, and the cube activated.

Everything was about to change.


End file.
